One of the most desirable neighborhoods in all of Dallas, University park is the perfect suburb. The homes in the area lean toward a lot of Spanish architectural designs and look to be extremely luxurious, and the yards are lush and green. Trees and lights line the sidewalks, making it extremely safe to walk the area at night. The sprawling neighborhood is also home to Southern Methodist University, and as a result many of the professors and research staff live in the area. Plenty of open-late restaurants can be found just on the outskirts of the neighborhood, as can a few nightclubs and the 24-hour Gym.

London's track suit clad figure can be seen darting along the sidewalk, appearing to blur in and out of sight as she passes the line of small trees sitting on the lawn that she moves by. This is the richer area of Dallas; big houses on every street with well-kept yards and white picket fences. London has avoided many of the late-night running risks simply by choosing the perfect neighborhood, as opposed to West Dallas or Downtown. It's colder outside, but this is the South. No snow, no ice, even on the 26th of December. The woman's headphones emit an easy beat, though the music player isn't turned up enough for anyone to hear actual lyrics. Crossing the street swiftly, London veers off to the side and steps on to the parking lot of a nearby convenience store, open 24/7. Immediately her pace slows, and then, almost languidly, she approaches the front entrance with a wad of cash in her hand.

Wit can be found in the corner store, looking towards the liquor aisle. It's not that wide of a selection to choose from, much to his chagrin. Not to mention the fact that Wit is tortuously unable to buy booze in the United States. "Maybe I'm not missing out on much after all. This is all utter shite. Not even Guinness to speak of." It's at this point that the dejected teenager grabs a cheap bean and cheese burrito from the freezer and throws it violently into one of the courtesy microwaves. He grabs a large bottle of cola from one of the freezers and opens it without paying, beginning to chug. The clerk sees this and keeps an eye on Wit, which isn't unnoticed. Wit punches a few digits into the microwave before moving to the front and taking out a five dollar bill, slapping it down on the counter. After a moment, he takes another five out. "Better give me a pack of menthols too."

When London enters the store, the clerk gives a polite nod and a smile that suggests she is a regular here. In response, London returns the nod and offers an amiable beam to the short, stout man, but anyone can see that the smile is completely and entirely two-faced. The disgusted wrinkle of her nose gives her away. "Evening," she says in passing, her voice uplifted and pleasant as she walks towards the large fridge, picking out a Fiji water and a jug of milk. Then, she turns back and stands behind Wit, briefly glancing over the boy's shoulder to look at the items he's picked out from the store. Her eyes narrow, and her expression is a judgmental one as her head tilts slightly. "Insurance companies estimate that smoking one single cigarette lowers one's life expectancy by 10.7 seconds," she helpfully informs Wit. Not that anyone asked her, but…

Wit turns his head and does a double take, as if making /positively/ sure that London is in fact talking to him. The '70s groove music that comes over the speakers creates some soundtrack dissonance. "Oi, only ten point seven?" Wit asks with a playful frown. "Maybe I'd better start smoking two at once." He winks to the cashier as he pays for his purchases - but not without handing over his ID first. "Twenty-one." Wit says, pointing towards his birthdate. He turns to London and glances her up and down, first taking in her track suit, then her water and milk. "Rehydrating or are you going to go enjoy a nice bowl of cereal or summat?" He asks curiously, and amiably enough. The microwave in the corner starts to go off as the clerk peruses Wit's ID very carefully.

"That means in smoking a packet of 20 cigarettes, life is shortened by… about three and a half hours," London says, pausing long enough for one to assume that she did the math in her head. She holds the water and milk against her side, one hand over the cap of the Fiji in preparation to place it on the counter once it's her turn. Another pause, and London glances towards the beeping microwave. "Perhaps you should," she agrees, and despite her pretty smile, she seems to encourage Wit's self-harm. She too looks at the ID, even going as far as to lean around the tall boy to see it. The woman says nothing, but her expression says it all. "If you really were, would you have felt the need to point it out to him?" she says in a lower voice to Wit, so that the clerk has a hard time hearing it. "I ran out at my house, and I always run by here anyway."

"At least if I die soon, I'll leave behind a lovely corpse." He winks at London and receives his pocket change, and his ID. The cigarettes are taken, shoved into a pocket on his leather jacket, and his cola is held in one hand. "You look like a butterfly and sting like a bee. I can respect that." Wit doesn't offer anymore insight into why exactly London is arguably such a bitch, but he does just smile a rather charming smile at her. He starts to move towards the microwave, pulling out his steaming burrito. The thing is sure to cause mass digestive problems and possibly a raging case of heartburn later. He makes no immediate comment to London's quiet remark about his ID, but simply smiles a rather pleasant smile in her direction as he takes a big bite of his burrito. He's not flinching or gagging. One must assume it's edible. After chewing with his mouth closed and politely swallowing, he nods to London. "Gotta keep in shape. Suppose I couldn't interest you in a cigarette too?" he asks non-chalantly. Was that a subtle ice burn?

"That depends on how you die," London tells Wit, her tone dropping to suit a threat. The brown in her eyes is light and reddish, like amber, and the look she casts the boy makes her appear, for that instance, dangerously feral. It's a bunch of thinly veiled insults or threats with London, and when she realizes that Wit has caught on, she has the decency to at least ask his name. Or state it - she apparently saw it on the ID. "Wit. You are like that burrito," she tells him, mimicking his use of similes, though she doesn't complete the phrase. She leaves that up to him, before setting her bottle of water and jug of milk down. She puts the five dollar bill on the counter and leaves the rest to the clerk, allowing him to keep the change. "Keeping in shape would mean that I'd need to avoid cigarettes, thank you," London remarks, while taking her bagged purchases and turning to Wit again. "And if those cancer sticks don't kill you, I think that thing will," she says, while gesturing to the burrito.

Wit raises a brow. "Cheesy and delicious?" He asks, before he moves to the door. The woman's feral look does give him pause, although for the most part it just brings another smile to his face. It's a game, and two can always play at a game. Except maybe for Solitaire. "Well, I'm just racking up Grim Reaper points today, aren't I? First the cigarettes, now the burrito. Guilty pleasures. We've all got to die someday, might as well enjoy our time here on Earth with trans fat and carbon monoxide, eh?" The youth asks, winking at London. He pushes out of the door and takes another bite of burrito, holding up to her. "Cheesy and delicious. Think about it."